


Ain't Getting Any Younger

by Whisper91



Series: Teen Wolf Fic Requests [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Cock Warming, D/s, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Jordan is a phoenix, M/M, Oral Fixation, Power Dynamics, Shameless Smut, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Spanking, and an even better Dom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his best efforts, single-Dominant parent John Stilinski finds himself falling hard for his new Submissive employee. It doesn't help that Jordan's such a goddamn flirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set during and after the events that take place in 'As Luck Would Have It (I'm Already Smitten)', but it can also be read as a stand-alone.

 

Sheriff Stilinski’s bland, professional smile slips the moment the other Dom exits his office.

God, he’s tired.

Seven applicants. _Seven._ John had been confident that at least _one_ of them would show an iota of potential, but it seems he’d been overly optimistic. Most of the candidates clearly had authority issues – John had seen it in the way they held themselves during the interview; felt it in the excessive use of strength when he’d offered them a handshake; heard the stiffness in their tone when they’d called him ‘Sir’. These were officers who had grown far too accustomed to the power and security of their previous jobs, resorting to unsubtle posturing in an attempt to show the Sheriff of Beacon Hills that they deserved a certain level of respect.

Morons.

If there’s one thing that grates on John’s nerves, it’s a pushy Dom. As a Dominant himself, he’s acutely aware of the power he holds at his fingertips – with the right nudge, he can build someone up; with the wrong one, he can send them Dropping. He’s not enough of an asshole to actually _use_ his Dynamic for his own personal gain, and he wouldn’t hesitate to fire one of his deputies if he discovered they’d been abusing their position in such a manner.

Not that he ignores his instincts entirely, of course; sometimes his role as Sheriff requires him to tap into his Dominant side in order to handle an agitated Sub or confront an aggressive Dom, but on the whole his skills are primarily used to support and comfort his colleagues. The life of a Beacon Hills cop isn’t all peaches and cream, after all, and John’s often found himself doing paperwork at his desk with one of his Submissive deputies kneeling beside him, the tension slowly easing from their shoulders as he pets them gently, murmured praise falling from his lips in an easy, soothing mantra. And even his Dominant staff need the comfort of a steady hand after a bad day - while not all of them are huggers, a cup of coffee and a clap on the shoulder goes a long way to saying ‘ _everything’s gonna be alright’._

John refuses to even consider employing an officer who uses his Dominance like a battering ram; someone who pushes without any consideration for those he’s trying to Top, concerned only about maintaining their own pitiful delusions of rightful authority. He’s worked with Doms like that before, and they’re pure _poison._ His team deserves better.

There’s nothing else for it; he’ll just have to flag up the job vacancy again in the hope that there will be other interested parties who aren’t complete _assholes._

He lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he heaves a sigh of weary exasperation, elbows braced on his desk and head bowed.

“So I’m guessing he’s a no, too?” Greg asks mildly from the doorway to John’s office, shooting the senior Dom a sympathetic smile.

“He asked if I’d consider only pairing him with Dominants out on patrol,” the Sheriff replies flatly. “Apparently, in his experience, Submissives tend to be a distraction.”

Greg snorts, and leans back to shout towards the main desk. “Hey, Mark! Apparently you’re a distraction.” There’s an audible _“fuck you”_ from the Submissive in question, and Greg laughs again, pushing away from the doorframe to approach the Sheriff’s desk. “Cheer up, old man, there’s still one candidate left.”

“A late-comer?” The Sheriff flips open the personnel file that Greg hands him. “The application deadline was yesterday,” he points out.

“You just interviewed seven no-goers,” Greg reasons, amused. “And don’t tell me you’re actually considering hiring one of those assholes, because I know you better than that.” He leans down to tap the corner of the top sheet of paper. “Parrish just moved here from Colorado. He seems pleasant enough. Kid’s got a decent amount of experience too, by the sounds of it.”

John feels his eyebrows ascend as he scans the long list of achievements: second in his class at the Academy, awarded the Medal of Honour for his services as a combat engineer in war-torn Mali (John can’t remember the last time Beacon Hills experienced a bomb scare, but having someone with the skills to assess and disarm live explosive devices would certainly be beneficial to the team as a whole), awarded citizen Medal of Valour for his bravery and sacrifice in the line of duty with the CPD…

Jesus. Officer Jordan Parrish sounds a little _over_ qualified for the job, to be quite frank. But his character references seem to paint him as dedicated and hard-working, and the bold, curving _S_ after his date of birth marks him as a Submissive, which is enough on its own to set Parrish apart from the other seven applicants. Not that John likes to show a _preference_ towards Submissive officers - he endeavours to be as unbiased as possible – but he _does_ try to keep the team fairly balanced with an equal number of both Dynamics. In a city as racially and culturally diverse as Beacon Hills, it doesn’t pay to pander to the more traditionalist views of some of their neighbouring towns.

“Send him in,” he decides, turning another page in the file to skim through the long list of law enforcement accreditations.

A moment later, there’s a gentle knock on the door.

“Mr Parrish I presume,” John says, rising, and glances up from the file to take in the young officer at a glance. A very _long_ , lingering glance. Jesus Christ.

“Jordan,” the shockingly handsome young Sub corrects, moving across to the desk with long, confident strides and extending a hand towards him with an easy smile.

“John Stilinski,” the Sheriff returns, and is pleasantly surprised when Jordan shifts their handshake after a beat from the neutral palm-to-palm, instead curling his fingers a little and turning his arm so that his wrist rests comfortably in the Dom’s grip; a gesture of trust and respect from Submissive to Dominant.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir,” the Sub tells him. “And I’m sorry I missed the deadline – I hope my application isn’t too late?”

“Not at all,” John reassures, this time with a genuine smile as he releases the man’s wrist, and the grin Parrish – Jordan – gives him in return is _breathtaking._

But dear God, he looks so _young_. John finds himself surreptitiously double-checking the officer’s date of birth out of the corner of his eye, but there’s no mistake. According to his personnel file, the man’s supposed to be _thirty._

“Before we get started, is there anything you’d like to disclose?” the Sheriff asks, closing the file and folding his hands in front of him, nodding for the Sub to take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Anything that wasn’t included in your employee profile that you think might benefit your application?”

“Well,” Jordan flashes him another easy grin. “Now that you mention it, Sir, I do make a mean chicken casserole.”

“Duly noted,” John acknowledges with a soft, rumbling laugh, and feels the stress of the previous seven interviews begin to dissipate.

In truth, the rest of the interview (however pleasant) is merely procedural. John’s already decided that he needs Jordan Parrish on his team.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

“Coffee?”

John stops rubbing at his tired, itching eyes and glances up sharply, his weary frown melting into a grateful smile when he spies the steaming mug.

“You’re a lifesaver, Parrish,” he murmurs appreciatively, taking a fortifying sip. “How are things out front?”

“Quiet,” the Sub replies, resting his hip against the side of John’s desk and leaning over to glance at the stack of request logs. “Burning the midnight oil, Sir?”

The Sheriff grimaces behind the rim of his mug. “Stock requests. Worst day of the month.”

Jordan bends down to take a closer look, and John makes an admirable effort not to stare at the man’s ass.

“Anything I can help you with, Boss?”

“Not unless you’re able to forge my signature a couple hundred times,” John grunts. At the deputy’s sly look, his lips twitch up, and he reaches out to smack a hand against Jordan’s arm. “Don’t even think about it, rookie.”

The Sub stares at him wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “Who, me?”

John shoves at him gently, laughing. “Get outta here.”

With an answering grin, Jordan steals a wrapped candy from the little bowl on the edge of John’s desk (sugar free, because Stiles would nag him persistently otherwise) and fair _saunters_ out of the office. John’s pretty sure that level of hip-swaying is unnecessary for a man with Jordan’s physique.

He clears his throat, feeling hot beneath the collar of his uniform, and has to forcefully wrench his eyes away from the empty doorway in order to return his focus to the task at hand.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

A chicken salad slides across the desk in front of him.

“I thought you and Scott were heading to the movies?” John asks without looking up from the incident report he’s reviewing.

“Sir?”

The Sheriff blinks, gaze snapping up to take in Jordan’s expression, a picture of amused bafflement. He smiles apologetically.

“Sorry, Parrish, I thought you were my son.” He glances down at the plastic container suspiciously. “Although that raises another question: why are you bringing me salad?”

“Not just any salad, Boss,” Jordan wheedles, tapping the sealed lid. “Chicken, avocado and halloumi cheese.”

“I’m sure it’s a perfectly respectable salad,” John agrees, nudging it back towards him. “Bon appétit.”

The Sub sighs, tilting his head to the side and giving him a morose look, lips turned down in an exaggerated pout. “C’mon, Sir, _please_. I promised.”

“Introducing you to my son was the biggest mistake of my life,” John grouches, but he reaches for the plastic fork all the same and pulls the salad closer to him. It’s not like he’s _ever_ going to be able to say no to Jordan when the boy looks at him like that and says ‘ _please_ ’.

Parrish beams at him when he takes a bite. Then, withdrawing the hand that he’s kept hidden behind his back, the Sub deposits a small _Krispy Kreme_ box on his desk. John lifts the lid with the tip of his index finger, and arches an eyebrow at the four perfectly glazed ring-donuts he finds there. When he directs that same look up at Jordan, the deputy merely shrugs.

“Stiles made me promise to bring you salads on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he explains with a smile. “But he said nothing about skimping on dessert.”

John could kiss him. He doesn’t, of course, because that would be unprofessional and inappropriate, but the _desire_ is there. It’s the first time John notices just how red and smooth and soft-looking the deputy’s lips are.

It’s also the last time he’s able to look at Jordan without wondering what _other_ parts of his body are smooth and soft-looking.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

“What the _hell_ were you doing?” the Sheriff fumes, fear and concern making his voice harder than he’d intended.

They’re alone for the moment, the Druid who’d pulled the bullet from Jordan’s shoulder having glanced between the two of them with an all-too-knowing look (goddamn telepaths) and promptly left the room without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Saving your ass,” Jordan replies, matching his tone. “Sir.”

John wants to grab him by the arms and give him a good shake for being so stupid. He wants to cup the man’s face between his palms and kiss him senseless, explaining without words exactly _why_ Jordan’s actions had been unacceptable. He wants to pull the Sub into his arms and hold him close, to reassure himself that the boy’s not dead, that the bullet hasn’t hit ant vital organs or severed any arteries. And yes, a part of him – that worried, protective, possessive Dominant part that’s growling in the back of his mind – is sorely tempted to turn the Sub over his knee and give him a darn good spanking for endangering his life so recklessly.

Because dear God, it all could have been so much _worse._

John had been wearing a vest _._ Jordan had not.

“It’s not your job to take a bullet for me,” he insists, anger and frustration giving way to exhaustion in the wake of it all.

“I have a right to make my own choices,” the Submissive replies, his own voice growing calmer. “It was a calculated risk, Sir. You know bullets can’t hurt me.”

John arches an eyebrow at the bloodstained bandage taped to Jordan’s shoulder. “That so?”

Parrish actually _rolls his eyes_ at him, the brat. “It’ll be healed by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not the point,” the Sheriff argues, tightening the hand that he’s (at some unknown point) circled around the boy’s wrist. “Dammit, Jordan, I don’t want you hurt _at all_.”

The deputy blinks, taken aback. John holds his gaze unwaveringly, although his heart has quickened from a brisk canter to an all-out gallop and he’s not even going to _try_ to convince himself that the Phoenix can’t hear it. Jordan’s throat visibly moves as he swallows, the fight leaving his posture in a single, shaky breath

“Sir...”

John hesitates only briefly before giving into his Dominant instincts and laying a comforting hand on the back of Jordan’s neck, that same possessive affection stirring in his chest when the Sub automatically bows his head a little at the contact, eyes sliding closed.

“The next time you decide to jump in front of bullet without a vest on, there’s going to be disciplinary consequences,” John warns, but his tone has softened now to something more soothing. “Am I understood?”

The Sub nods, head still bowed. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

John wants to say _‘good boy’_ – it’s right there on the tip of his tongue – but the phrase is a little too intimate for a professional relationship. He allows his fingers to slide into Jordan’s hair instead, rubbing against his scalp gently, soothingly.

“And Jordan?” He waits until the Sub’s lifts his gaze, pupils dilated and face lax, before allowing his lips to curl up in a quiet half-smile. “Thank you. For saving my ass.”

Jordan’s grin is a little more forced than usual, but he’s still leaning into John’s touch, so maybe it’s just his wound bothering him.

“My pleasure, Sir.”

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

Hot coffee splashes over the rim of John’s mug as he slams it down onto the desk, staring at the Phoenix with open incredulity.

“You’re _kidding_ me?”

Parrish holds his hands up in placation, laughing. “Didn’t realise it was such a big deal, Boss.”

“How could you have missed-” The Dom shakes his head and makes an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “It’s _Jurassic Park,_ son. That’s like saying you’ve never seen the _Blade_ trilogy.”

At Jordan’s blank look, the Sheriff pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Dear God in heaven.” Then he sits back and fixes the Sub with a decisive look. “Saturday night.”

“The song?”

“No.” John’s lips twitch as he reaches for the stack of paperwork that’s still waiting to be countersigned. He never seems to get anything done when Jordan stops by for lunch. “This Saturday night. Do you have anything planned?”

The Sub shakes his head, confusion giving way to a vaguely hopeful sort of look that John tries not to get too excited about.

“No, Sir.”

“Good.” John uncaps his pen and tries to keep his tone casual as he continues, “You’re coming over for a movie marathon. You need educating.”

There’s a split-second pause in which John’s almost positive he hears the deputy’s breathing hitch. Maybe it was John’s unusual phrasing – in truth, there are several _other_ things that he’d like to educate the Sub about, but none of them are appropriate within the boundaries of their current friendship.

“I know a great Chinese place,” Jordan mentions offhandedly, but John can hear the pleased note in his voice. “How about I bring the food, you bring the beer, and we persuade Stiles to leave us a batch of something unhealthy for dessert?”

The Sheriff glances up from the report that he hasn’t actually been reading and smiles, extending his hand towards Parrish.

“Deal.”

The handshake is firm and warm, and Jordan’s fingers linger against his own for several beats longer than propriety demands. John _tries_ not to feel too smug about the pink flush in the younger man’s cheeks the Sub pulls away.

He fails. And subsequently wastes another thirty minutes thinking about how far down that blush might spread if John touched him elsewhere.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

Every once in a while, there’s someone they can’t save.

It doesn’t matter how hard his team try, or how diligently they do their job – sometimes they just can’t make it to the scene in time.

“It was a bloodbath,” Greg informs him grimly, his face set, weary lines creasing around his eyes. The man’s always looked enviably young for his age, but right now he seems almost as old as John. “The Dom’s ex was obviously out to get revenge – he shot the Sub and the kids first, left ‘em bleeding out in the living room. The Dom was still conscious when we got there, but the docs aren’t sure she’ll make it; she lost a lot of blood.”

“And the ex?” the Sheriff probes, pushing a cup of coffee into Greg’s hand.

The deputy takes a sip automatically, wincing at the heat. “Dead.”

“Suicide?”

Greg shakes his head, lips thinning. “He pulled a gun on Parrish. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

John feels concern spiking in his chest at the news, and glances out through the windows of his office towards the bullpen, eyes searching out Jordan’s familiar features.

“He hit the showers the minute we got back,” Greg tells him, and glances down at his own uniform, the light beige material stained dark with the red of another man’s blood. “Something I probably ought to do myself.”

The Sheriff claps him on the shoulder gently. “You know where to find me if you want to talk,” he offers, but the other man shakes his head again with a weary sort of smile.

“I’ll be alright. Your boy, on the other hand?” Greg gives him a _look_. “I’ll send him through to you when he’s done.”

John’s given up trying to dissuade his old friend from referring to Jordan as _‘_ his’ boy – the man’s as stubborn as an ox when he wants to be, and moreover, he tends to be right about these sort of things. Besides, John would like nothing more than to call Jordan _his_ boy. Their recent movie night was probably the most enjoyable evening he’s had in _years,_ and they’ve already planned another one. He won’t rush things, though. There’s too much at stake.

Although the instinct to seek out the young Sub is hard to suppress, John forces himself to sit back down at his desk and resume working. Jordan needs to come to _him_ ; there are procedures and guidelines to follow for these sort of situations, and John’s been the Sheriff long enough to know the limitations by rote.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Movement from the doorway brings his eyes up to meet Jordan’s, and the Sub lowers his gaze immediately, shifting from foot to foot for a moment. He’s dressed in a clean uniform, albeit without his belt and holster, his hair half a shade darker in its dampened state. He looks so goddamn _young,_ and John’s heart aches just looking at him _._

“Deputy,” the Sheriff greets softly, setting his pen down. “Can I help you?”

Jordan’s throat bobs as he swallows, eyes closing briefly. “Please.”

And that’s all the invitation John needs. He crosses the room slowly, silently, and curls his fingers around the wrist that Parrish offers him, drawing the man further into the office and closing the door behind him. With a tug at the nearby cord, he closes the blinds over the windows to give them some privacy and pulls the Sub into a secure embrace.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, cupping the back of Jordan’s neck, thumb brushing against the skin there. “You did good, son. I’m proud of you.”

Jordan shudders in his arms, wilting against his chest, and John feels a surge of possessive affection well up inside of him, the emotion so intense that it almost physically _hurts_ to fight against it.

“You wanna kneel for me?” he asks softly, and when Jordan nods against his shoulder he rewards the Sub with a brief press of lips to the side of his head. “Alright. Come on, kiddo, I’ve got you.”

He leads Jordan across the room carefully, hooking the toe of his boot beneath the latch on the underside of his desk to pull out the kneeler-pad. It’s barely clicked into place before the Sub sinks fluidly to his knees, head bowed, eyes closed.

“Easy,” John soothes, sitting down and scooting his own chair an inch to the right so that Jordan can lean against him if he wants to. He runs his fingers through the younger man’s hair, watching as he settles, the faint tremors in his limbs dissipating. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Rather than tensing at the inappropriately intimate choice of phrasing, Jordan leans forward to rest against John’s leg, head cushioned on his thigh, one hand wrapped loosely around the ankle closest to him.

“Sir,” he breathes, his voice slurred.

“I know,” the Sheriff murmurs, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the Sub’s scalp. “You’re okay, I’m here. You can let go.”

Jordan shudders again, his breath hitching, then he slumps like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the remaining tension seeping out of his body in a single exhale, leaving him a sleepy, pliant weight against John’s thigh.

The Dom allows himself a tender smile, warmth welling in his chest as he passes a hand over the short, damp hair again.

“Good boy.”

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

Soon enough, dinner and movie nights become a thrice-weekly occurrence.

John isn’t blind. He _knows_ that something else has developed between them, especially since that day in the officer where Jordan had knelt for him, and he’s quickly come to realise that the silent yearning is not quite as one-sided as he’d initially resigned himself to believing.

But Jordan’s become one of his dearest friends over the course of the past couple of months, and a valued work colleague, proving himself over and over again to be trustworthy and loyal and dependable. And John’s _scared_ of losing that. Of fucking this up somehow and ruining everything they’ve built between them.

He’s tried to tell himself that their friendship is enough. That he can be content with lingering touches and tender looks. But he knows there’s little use in denying his feelings – he’s a Dom, after all, and there are some instincts that he simply _can’t_ ignore.

In the end, that bridge is crossed quite unexpectedly.

Jordan’s laughing at an appalling joke that John’s just made (a ‘Dad joke’, Stiles would undoubtedly label it), eyes bright and cheeks flushed and mouth curled up in a wide, easy smile. They’re pressed close together on the couch, empty Chinese takeout cartons scattered across the coffee table in front of them, Jordan’s fingers curled into the sleeve of John’s shirt as he laughs, as though to anchor himself to the Dom. It’s not the first time John’s seen him laugh like that. It’s not even the tenth. But he suddenly looks so breathtakingly _beautiful_ that the Dom can’t stop himself.

Before he knows what he’s doing, his hand has come up to cup Jordan’s cheek and he’s leaning in, pressing his lips against the younger man’s in a soft, lingering kiss. Jordan freezes against him for a moment, then _melts_ into his touch, fingers tightening around the material of John’s shirt as he closes the inch-wide gaps between their parted lips to kiss him again, hard and desperate.

It’s everything John had dreamed it would be, and more besides. Because Jordan’s so goddamn _eager_ , shifting closer when John settles a possessive hand on his hip, breathing soft little moans between kisses.

“Fuck,” the Sub says shakily when John breaks away from his mouth to trail a line of kisses along his jawline. “Wanted you for so long, Sir. Knew I wasn’t just imagining things. I saw the way you stared at me when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

John cups Jordan’s face between his hands and kisses him again, more gently this time. “Subtlety was never my strong suit,” he confesses, and presses their foreheads together briefly, a smile playing at his mouth. “I realise this might be a little belated, but would you like to go out with me?”

“S’not that belated,” Jordan comments, amused, fingers trailing up John’s chest until both his hands are resting on the Dom’s shoulders. “It’s only, what, our sixth date?”

“Mm, something like that.”

The Sub abruptly swings himself up and over to kneel astride John’s lap, dipping down to steal another kiss. “Guess that means we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

John might not be as young as he used to be, but he’d have to be _dead_ not to react to the sudden weight of a handsome Sub’s pert ass settling down against his thighs. All of the late-night fantasies from the past couple of months burst into life at the forefront of his mind, and heat pools in his crotch, a building pressure that makes his hands tighten where they’ve settled on Jordan’s thighs.

“Careful,” he cautions, and hears how low and gravelly his voice has become. “Don’t go starting anything you aren’t ready to finish.”

“And who says I’m not ready?” Jordan grins at him, all lust and mischief (it’s a good look) and rocks his hips seductively.

With a breathless huff of laughter at the boy’s unashamed forwardness, John curls a hand over the back of Jordan’s neck to pull him down for another kiss, palming one of the Sub’s ass cheeks with his other hand to help him rock forward in a slow, sensual rhythm.

“God, you smell amazing,” the Sub moans after a few minutes of mutual pleasure, bowing his head to bury his nose in John’s neck, fair bouncing in the older man’s lap. “Fuck. You’ve been aroused before, but never-” He sucks in a sharp breath when John’s cock twitches in his pants. “Ohmygod, Sir, please. Let me suck your cock, _please.”_

How can John refuse a request like that? Hell, how can he refuse this boy _anything?_ If Jordan asked for a helicopter, he’d probably still say yes.

The Sub’s hands are trembling faintly when he reaches for John’s fly, and the Dom would be concerned if not for the obvious tent he can see in the deputy’s pants, and the way his pupils are blown wide enough to make his eyes dark. He looks so _good,_ kneeling there between John’s legs, that the Sheriff almost has to pinch himself as a reminder that this isn’t just a particularly vivid daydream.

His breath hitches when Jordan frees him from the confines of his pants, and he feels a surge of Dominant pride at the way the boy’s eyes widen at the sight of him. But then the Sub’s fingers are curling around the girth of him, pumping slowly, and all coherent thought goes straight out the nearest window.

Jordan’s _mouth_ though, dear god; it’s hot and wet and tight, and the intensity of it all has him peaking after an embarrassingly short period of time.

“I’m close,” he warns breathlessly, and tugs gently on the Sub’s hair to ease him off, but Jordan merely redoubles his efforts, hand sliding wetly up and down the Dom’s length as his lips move back to the tip and he _sucks._ “Oh, _fuck…_ ”

He comes harder than he has in years, shooting his load into Jordan’s still-sucking mouth, hips jerking in little aborted movements as the Sub swallows and swallows around him, lust-blown eyes lifting to meet John’s gaze.

Feeling drained and shaky, like the Sub’s just sucked the life out of him through his cock, he sags back against the couch, fingers running through Jordan’s hair and down his face as the boy leans his cheek against John’s inner thigh and grins at him, lips red and shiny and blow-swollen.

“You’re amazing,” the Dom murmurs, running his thumb over the boy’s bottom lip.

Jordan kisses the pad of the digit, his eyes glinting. “I live to serve, Sir.”

The temptation grows too much, and John has to yank him up into his lap for another kiss.

He manages to drag the Sub upstairs to bed before they end up marking up the couch (Stiles would _not_ approve), and soon enough he’s peeled all of those bothersome layers of fabric away to leave Jordan flushed and naked and sweaty beneath him, moaning with every breath, arching into every touch. The boy’s previous confidence has gone in the face of his own arousal, Submissive instincts making him eager and pliant under John’s guiding hands, but he’s still coherent enough to manage a desperate _“yes, yes, please!”_ when John rubs a lubed finger against his entrance.

He might not have the refractory period he used to, but the sight and sound of Jordan’s aroused state is enough to bring him to full hardness again fairly quickly. Good thing, too; the Sub’s moans have reached a level of desperate keening that’s almost alarming, and he’s pushing back against three of John’s fingers like his life depends on it.

They move together like it’s a well-practised dance, deep-rooted instincts guiding John’s touch and words, and Jordan comes undone beneath him like he was born to do it. The Sub’s legs are hitched around the man’s hips, his wrists pinned either side of his head by the Dom’s hands, the headboard bumping against the wall with the strength of John’s thrusts.

Right as the pleasure’s reaching its crescendo, Jordan tips his chin up and to the left, baring his throat. And while John doesn’t have the same instincts driving him as most Supernatural species, he identifies the action for what it really is, and hesitates only the barest fraction of a moment before lowering his mouth to the boy’s pale throat and biting down.

Jordan cries out, tensing, and comes hard between them, his muscles clenching around John’s cock. A few more ragged thrusts and the Dom’s following suit, spending inside his boy, lips pressed against the bruising bite mark in an open-mouthed kiss.

“Mine,” he pants against the reddened skin, knowing it’s what Jordan wants to hear.

The Sub trembles beneath him, juddering with the aftershocks of his recent orgasm. “Yours,” he agrees breathlessly, tilting his chin to further expose his throat. “All yours, Sir.”

John rather likes the sound of that.

 

 

 


	2. Domesticity

 

John clears his throat, apprehension spiking up another notch as his son freezes in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes widening fractionally. The Sheriff settles a gentle hand on Jordan’s shoulder, more to reassure himself than to soothe the Sub (who’s sitting at the dining table eating breakfast, and appears enviably unruffled, given the circumstances), forcing a smile.

“Stiles,” he begins falteringly, and wishes he’d spent a little more time this morning mentally preparing for their inevitable conversation, rather than allowing himself to be distracted by his Sub’s come-hither smile and naked ass.

Jordan heaves a fondly exasperated sigh at the lingering silence and turns slightly in his chair to flash Stiles an easy grin. “I’m going out with your dad. Cool?”

The kid glances from his father’s face to Jordan’s, to the hand on the other Sub’s shoulder, then to the dark leather collar fastened around the deputy’s throat, and finally back to John again. He sags against the doorframe abruptly with an audible sigh.

“Fucking _finally.”_

“Language,” John chides automatically, because the parenting side of his brain is the only part that’s still functioning properly.

The boy rolls his eyes at the familiar reprimand, but he’s grinning, and after a beat he all but _skips_ across the kitchen to throw his arms around them both; one flung across the front of Jordan’s shoulders, the other wrapped around his father’s midriff.

“Congrats,” Stiles says cheerfully, the words slightly muffled against John’s shirtfront. “It’s been rough, and for a while there I thought I’d need to pull out the big guns – _literally –_ just to get you two idiots to sit down and talk about your feelings for five minutes. But we made it.”

He pulls back and mimes wiping away a tear. “I’m so proud of you, guys.”

“You’re a _brat,_ ” Jordan laughs, even as he jumps up to yank the kid into a headlock.

Grinning, Stiles squirms his way out of it after a moment, stepping back right into John’s embrace. The Dom squeezes his son in a tight hug, his previous apprehension gone, a sense of easy contentment washing over him in its stead. Jordan has accepted his collar freely and Stiles has accepted their relationship with no questions asked; he genuinely couldn’t be any happier.

His son yawns widely against John’s shoulder and pulls away to scrub at his eyes. “Ugh, I’m beat,” the younger man groans. “And although I’m super happy for you two lovebirds, can we maybe postpone the celebrations until tonight? I need, like, ten hours sleep before I can think of anything suitably profound to say about,” he waves his hand in a vague gesture, “…marriage and stuff.”

The Sheriff reaches out to mess up the Sub’s hair, his smile fond. “We’ll talk later,” he promises. “Go get some sleep, kid.”

“M’kay,” the younger man agrees, and lifts his hand in a lazy wave, flashing Jordan a quick, cheeky sideways smile as he turns towards the door. “Try to keep it down, huh? And if you run out of condoms, there’s a box-”

John’s hand collides with Stiles’ backside in a swat that’s only half-playful, and the Sub gives an answering yelp that sounds more like a giggle as he skitters out of firing range, beating a hasty retreat.

Jordan takes one look at the rising heat in John’s cheeks and bursts out laughing, the _brat._

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

“Benjamin Argent-Martin,” John murmurs, running a tender finger over the sleeping infant’s silken cheek. “He’s beautiful, Allison.”

The new mother smiles at him, tired but glowingly happy, head resting on her wife’s shoulder as the other Switch strokes a hand over her hair idly. Lydia’s gaze is fixed on the little bundle in John’s arms, that ever-present look of wonderment and joy in her eyes that John remembers all too well from his first few weeks of fatherhood.

The baby fusses in his arms a little, and Lydia twitches as if restraining herself from swooping in to rescue her child, but John adjusts his grip carefully, the movement almost second nature (Stiles had always been a fussy, colicky baby who only ever settled when he was being rocked), and sways gently from side to side. Benjamin settles down immediately.

“We weren’t expecting him quite so soon,” Allison remarks, settling a hand on her still-swollen belly. “But apparently he likes to make a grand entrance, just like his mother.”

Lydia flicks the back of her hand lightly, but the kiss she presses against the brunette’s hair hides a smile. Then she turns her gaze towards John, amusement curling at the corner of her mouth.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Mr Stilinski,” she notes, nodding towards where a Sub-band (a handsome dark leather cuff etched with elegant, swirling Druid runes) sits snugly around his wrist.

“Jordan’s over the moon,” Allison adds, her tone fond. “I hope you weren’t trying to keep it a secret, because I’m pretty sure half of Beacon Hills knows by now.”

John sniffs a grin, even as he returns his gaze to the blanket-wrapped parcel of new life in his arms. “No, it’s not a secret. God knows that boy can’t keep anything to himself when he’s excited.”

He glances back up again in time to see Lydia and Allison sharing an affectionate look, although whether it’s at his expense or due to some private joke between them, he can’t tell.

“Oh,” Lydia says, turning her gaze back towards him quickly, “who won the betting pool, by the way? Stiles never said.”

The Sheriff blinks are her, blank-faced. “What betting pool?”

“Oh c’mon, Sir,” Allison laughs. “Everyone in the station had money staked on you and Parrish, right from the get-go. Don’t tell me you never caught onto it?”

He hadn’t. And apparently John needs to have _another_ ‘so what have you been up to this time’ conversation with his son next time he’s over for dinner. In truth, he probably ought to feel a little more cheesed off about his team placing bets on his love life, but mostly he’s still basking in the warm, endorphin-filled glow of their honeymoon period.

He’ll wait until it’s warn off before raking his deputies over the coals.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

He soon discovers that Jordan likes to kneel.

It’s hardly an unusual trait for a Submissive, and John certainly doesn’t mind it (quite the opposite, in fact – his Sub looks _gorgeous_ on his knees); it’s just that the boy had previously never struck him as the ‘traditional’ type. In public, Jordan is the very definition of a New Age Sub; independent, confident in himself and his own identity, comfortable in his position of authority as a BHPD deputy, and effortlessly calm and unflappable in the face of adversity. But behind closed doors, in the safety and security of his new home, Parrish lives and breathes subjugation.

A brush of John’s lips against his jaw and the Sub’s baring his throat willingly, fingers clenching in the fabric of his Dom’s shirt or in the bedsheets beneath them, eager and willing and _desperate._ The slightest squeeze of John’s fingers around those slim wrists when they’re rocking against each other in bed and the Phoenix is pushing up into his grip with a breathless _“yes, Sir!”,_ begging to be retrained, to be held down and taken in whichever way John pleases. But most of the time it’s simply a gentle tug on the boy’s hand, or a light press to his shoulder, and Jordan’s sinking fluidly to his knees with a soft, relieved sigh, head bowed and eyes closed.

“You can stay there, if you like,” John tells him softly, when he returns to the living room with the pizza they’ve ordered and sees his Sub eyeing the couch reluctantly from his position on the floor.

Jordan glances up at him, hopeful and unsure in equal measure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” the Sheriff reassures, and leans down to drop a kiss against his upturned cheek, setting the takeout box on the coffee table. “So long as you’re comfortable, I’m happy. Do you want another cushion?”

Jordan shakes his head with a quiet smile as John reclaims his seat on the couch, scooting closer to press himself up against the Dom’s leg, eyes closing briefly as his breath leaves him in a long, contented exhale. John runs his fingers through the Sub’s hair, scratching lightly over his scalp, a tender warmth unfurling inside his chest as the boy hums and leans into his touch.

“You know,” the Sheriff murmurs, “if you want this to become a regular thing, I’d be more than happy to go shopping tomorrow and buy a bunch of kneeler-pads for the house.”

The Sub shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the Dom’s knee. “I’m fine with cushions, Sir.”

“I know you’re _‘fine’_ with cushions, kiddo,” John tells him, curling a finger beneath Jordan’s chin to tilt it upwards gently. “But would you _like_ a kneeler?”

Jordan runs his tongue over his bottom lip in a rare nervous gesture, shifting a little on his knees. “Maybe? I mean, I don’t need one, but if you’re offering?”

John just raises an eyebrow and waits patiently.

“Yes,” the Sub corrects after a beat, rubbing his cheek against the denim of John’s pants. “I’d like a kneeler, Sir.”

“Good boy,” John murmurs, his voice a low rumble. He strokes a tender thumb over the faint blush of heat in Jordan’s cheeks. “Don’t be afraid to ask for things you want, sweetheart. And for future reference, I want you to consider the house yours as much as it is mine. If you want to fill the spare room with random collectables, go right ahead. If you feel like redecorating the hallway, have at it. And if you never want to use a chair again, I’ll buy you all the goddamn kneelers you want. Okay?”

Jordan’s beams at him, wide and happy and unrestrained, and it just about melts John’s heart. He leans down to kiss the boy, who meets him halfway eagerly, climbing up to straddle the Dom’s lap after a gentle tug to the front of his shirt.

“Definitely okay,” the Phoenix agrees breathlessly, hands gripping onto John’s shoulders for balance, eyes half-closed as the Dom presses their brows together.

John strokes a hand up the man’s spine to cup the back of his neck, the other sliding beneath Jordan’s shirt to rest at the small of his back, something possessive and primal stirring within him when the Sub’s sucks in a shaky breath at the touch. There are often moments when he still can’t believe his luck; where he expects to wake up alone in bed and discover that these past few weeks been the product of an overactive imagination, because why would a boy like Parrish ever want to bind himself to a middle-aged grump like John?

But day after day he wakes up with a beautiful Sub in his arms. Every morning he’ll fasten the dark leather collar around Jordan’s throat and let the boy slip a Sub-band over his wrist, and every night John will allow himself to be tugged upstairs to the bedroom long before either of them are tired enough to sleep and slowly, meticulously take his Sub apart amidst rumpled bedsheets. He’s eternally grateful that Stiles had moved into Derek’s apartment on a permanent basis a few weeks back, because he no longer has to worry about keeping the noise to a minimum. Jordan’s extremely vocal when his Dom gives him reason to be, and John’s dedicated many an evening to the pursuit of those high-pitched keening noises his Sub tends to make when he’s been pushed to the height of pleasure.

“What about dinner?” he teases, but doesn’t move Jordan’s hand when it pushes up beneath his shirt to rest against his chest.

“With all due respect, Sir,” the Sub moans, rolling his hips again as he sucks in another hitching breath. “To hell with dinner.”

“Mm.”

Cold pizza tastes fine anyways.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

The Sheriff raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You already have a seating plan?”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand and clicks onto the next slide of his PowerPoint presentation. “Ignore that. I hashed it all out before I even met Derek, so none of the Hale Pack are there. And we can’t have that, for obvious reasons. Also, we’re gonna need a bigger venue, since our family’s kinda doubled in size now, but most of the ones I scoped out a few months back should still be okay.”

John sends his Sub a mildly panicked look, but to his dismay the Phoenix is nodding in agreement, brow creased in concentration as he leafs through the venue brochures that Stiles had produced from an alarmingly-large box labelled _‘Project Cupid: Boss Level’._ In truth, he would’ve been happy with a semi-private ceremony at the Registration Office, with only a handful of guests to worry about. But as it turns out, Jordan is the hopelessly romantic sort, and if a big, fancy Bonding Ceremony is what the boy wants for their special day then John isn’t willing to deny him anything.

“The Orchard looks nice,” Jordan comments, shifting on his kneeler so that he can slide the brochure across the coffee table towards Stiles. “And it gives us the option of having the ceremony outside, if the weather’s nice.”

“It was one of my favourites,” Stiles enthuses, and rattles off an eager spiel about ceremony packages and catering facilities and pre-set floral arrangements.  

John needs a stiff drink.

“Oh, and I kinda promised Joe and Hannah that they’d be our first port of call for suits,” his son mentions hesitantly. “It’s just, I remember you saying how much you liked the tuxes Derek and I used at our ceremony, so I thought maybe it’d be easier to go for something similar? I mean, we can always go someplace else, but I figured it wasn’t worth the extra hassle…”

“That’s fine,” John reassures him, because he’s more than happy to go with the easy option. There are enough details to hash out already; it’s a comfort to know that at least one thing’s already sorted.

“Awesome.” Stiles flicks though a notepad and scribbles something down. “So, I’ve got you scheduled for cake-tasting at the end of next week, we could totally get your measurements done that same afternoon.”

“Cake-tasting?” John echoes faintly, resisting the urge to rub at the building ache behind his temples.

“Mm-hm.”

“I definitely like The Orchard,” Jordan decides, busy googling the venue’s website. “It’s not trying to be too fancy, and it’s definitely big enough to squeeze us all in.”

Stiles beams at the other Sub. “If you like, I can give them a call tomorrow, see if they’d be able to give you a tour sometime this weekend?” The kid’s brow furrows momentarily as he scribbles down another note. “Maybe I should ask the catering company to email us a selection of their menus, too. Do you wanna see the centrepieces I picked out for the dining hall?”

“One thing at a time, Stiles,” a deeper voice rumbles, amused. “Your dad’s looking a little green around the gills.”

Sending Derek a grateful look, John is hard pressed not to kiss the Wolf when his son-in-law hands him a cold beer with a sympathetic smile and a clap to the shoulder, and takes a seat on the couch beside him. Stiles eagerly abandons the kneeler pad on the floor to crawl up into his Dom’s arms, settling himself in the Alpha’s lap contentedly.

“Dad, if you want me to shove off, all you have to do is say so,” Stiles tells him, growing serious for a moment as he nudges John’s knee with his sock-clad foot. “It’s your wedding. I won’t interfere if you don’t want my help.”

John shakes his head, squeezing the kid’s ankle gently. “No, I appreciate your input. God knows I have no idea how to plan a Bonding Ceremony.”

“He really doesn’t,” Jordan agrees, amused, and scoots back to lean against his Dom’s leg, smiling up at his soon-to-be step-son. “Maybe we ought to call it a night before we give your dad a coronary?”

And that, John decides, is the best idea he’s heard all evening.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought. :) For those who requested specific scenes, they'll be in the next chapter. Any further requests, ask away! <3
> 
> xxx


	3. Office Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested: office sex. (Sort of - John's a professional, after all.)

 

 

John hates paperwork.

It doesn’t matter how many hours he spends at his desk scribbling his signature on stock request forms and SPR audits, the pile in his tray never seems to get any smaller. He inevitably ends up taking a box home with him at the end of the week to finish up during time off (all too aware that the tray in his office will be full again come Monday), confident that he’ll be able to complete the rest of it in a single evening without the frequent interruptions he has to put up with down at the station.

It’s something he’s been doing for years. The system used to work well for him in terms of time management, but up until recently he’s only ever had Stiles to consider, and his son was usually happy enough to keep himself entertained elsewhere while John worked.

Parrish, on the other hand? No such luck.

“You’ve been holed up in here for almost an hour,” the Sub complains, leaning over the back of the office chair to kiss the side of his neck, long arms sliding down his chest slowly, fingers teasing at the buttons of his shirt. “Pretty sure that warrants a break, Sir.”

John sighs quietly, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips as he lifts a hand to squeeze one of the younger man’s wrists. “I’m halfway done,” he promises, turning his head to steal a proper kiss, albeit far more chaste than Jordan wants, going by the Sub’s pout when he pulls away again. “It’ll only take me another hour at most.”

“Only?” Jordan echoes critically. He kisses the Dom’s neck again. “Aw, c’mon, Boss. All work and no play makes John a dull boy.”

“Mm,” the Sheriff agrees absently, trying to remember which paragraph he’d been reading. He always gets so goddamn distracted whenever his Sub’s nearby.

Jordan’s hands slide down John’s chest in a deliberately sensual manner. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come upstairs with me instead?” he purrs. “I’ll make it worth your while.” The Sub presses a kiss against the shell of John’s ear. “ _Please_ , Sir?”

The Sheriff closes his eyes briefly, heat pooling low in his belly as his pulse quickens at the mental image of tumbling his cheeky Sub into bed and making him _really_ beg for it. He just as quickly pushes the urge back down again, eyeing the stack of paperwork sitting by his left elbow, knowing from experience that it’s far better to get it all over and done with as soon as possible in order to fully enjoy his weekend. It’ll be the first time they’ve had a full weekend off together without one of them being on-call or working nightshifts, and he intends to savour every moment of it _without_ unfinished paperwork weighing on his mind.  

Jordan can wait another hour. He’ll make it up to the boy afterwards; ring an orgasm or twelve out of him before the night is through, and spoil him so thoroughly over the next two days that he’ll want for nothing.

He carefully curls a hand around the Sub’s wrist again, squeezing the tiniest bit harder than last time. “I need to finish these first,” he reiterates, calm but firm. “But the minute I’m done, I’m all yours.”

The Phoenix huffs a dramatic sigh against his neck, withdrawing his arms slowly. “Well, if that’s how you’re gonna be…” Jordan abruptly moves to the side of John’s chair and makes a show of slowly shrugging off his jacket. “Guess I’ll just have to be a distraction instead.”

And fuck, but John can’t help but stare. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been living together for weeks now; he’ll never grow tired of watching his Sub strip. Jordan has an incredible body – all lean, sculpted muscle and smooth, tanned skin – and he’s not shy about putting on a good show. The by pulls his t-shirt over his head and grins at John, smug as you please, eyes bright with mischief as he slowly eases his slacks down over his hips, bending unnecessarily low to tug them off his feet, leaving him in nothing but his socks and a pair of boxer-briefs.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to come upstairs?” the boy asks innocently, moving to sit in John’s lap, the curve of his ass grinding down against the significant tent that’s formed in the front of John’s slacks.

The Dom breathes out a curse and drops his pen in favour of cupping Jordan’s chin, pressing a fierce kiss to the Sub’s mouth as his other hand curls around the younger man’s hip to keep him anchored in close.

“You little brat,” he accuses, but his tone is more amused than reprimanding. “I’d be half tempted to turn you over my knee for this if you weren’t so goddamn irresistible.”

Jordan grins, looping his arms around John’s neck as he grinds his ass down against the Dom’s erection again, cheeks tinged pink with arousal, eyes bright with mischief.

“Maybe you should put me in my place, Sir,” the Sub suggests coyly. “Can’t have a boy like me sassing the town’s Sheriff; I might decide to make a habit of it.”

John arches an eyebrow, an answering smile curling at his lips. Jordan’s never shy about his own needs and desires, which mostly involve being put on his knees anywhere and everywhere, or pinned down and restrained by his Dom’s hands, or handcuffed to the bedposts for hours at a time while John has his way with him. The boy craves subjugation, begs for _more_ and _harder_ until speech inevitably fails him, lives for the electric-sharp pleasure of a pinch or a bite or the smack of an open palm that’ll tip him over into Subspace. And John loves him dearly for it.

“You know, I think you’re right,” he agrees, his hand sliding up Jordan’s thigh slowly, fingers teasing at the lower hem of his underwear. “Maybe I need to remind you who’s in charge here.”

The deputy nods quickly, his breathing growing rapid as John skims his fingers over the bulge in the front of his briefs. “Yes, Sir. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Hm. We’ll see about that.” John steals one last kiss before tapping the Sub’s hip lightly. “On your knees, boy.”

Jordan complies without hesitation, slipping from the Sheriff’s lap and sinking gracefully to his knees at the side of John’s chair, wrists crossed behind his back and gaze lowered, the very picture of submission.

“Well now,” John drawls, carding his fingers through the Sub’s hair rewardingly, rotating his office chair so that he’s facing him properly. “Isn’t that something?” He sees the flush in Jordan’s cheeks darken at the praise and grins, stroking the backs of his fingers over the hot skin. “Looks like there’s a good boy in there after all.”

He cups the deputy’s chin gently, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Jordan’s lips, which part obediently beneath his touch, allowing John to push the digit into the Sub’s mouth. The electric heat of his growing arousal goes straight to his groin as Jordan’s lips close around his thumb, sucking gently, his tongue working against the digit with careful precision, stroking against the skin suggestively.

“Beautiful,” John murmurs, palming himself through his slacks, lips kicking up in amusement as Jordan’s eyes immediately zero in on the bulge there, lust-blown and eager. He carefully unzips the fly and takes himself out, curling his free hand into a loose fist and stroking himself languidly as his Sub watches, enraptured. “You want this, baby?”

Jordan nods, his mouth stilling around John’s thumb, eyes fixed on the Dom’s straining erection.

“Alright,” he concedes, slipping his digit free and gently palming the side of Jordan’s head, feeling a renewed thrill of arousal at the way the younger man’s eyelids droop in response. “Open up for me. That’s it, good boy.”

The deputy’s lips part obediently and John guides his head forward with a firm but gentle hand, allowing his cock to slip inside a couple of inches, sucking in a sharp breath at the immediate rush of pleasure that hits him. Jordan’s mouth is fiercely hot and deliciously wet, the suction almost too tight to bear, and he has to clamp down on the immediate urge to rock his hips into that heat. He curls his fingers into the Sub’s short, dark hair and holds him there for a long moment.

“Just look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky with arousal. “This is where you belong, isn’t it, sweetheart? On your knees with my cock in your mouth.”

The Sub gives a keening hum of agreement, already half-gone on John’s words alone, tugging against the Dom’s hold on his hair to swallow him down even further. John lets him, bring his left hand up to cup the other side of Jordan’s face, moaning low in his throat as the boy starts to bob slowly, working his tongue against the underside of John’s cock as he sucks.

It doesn’t take him long to reach his peak, not with Jordan’s mouth milking him so skilfully, not with the boy all flushed and sweaty and aroused between his legs, wrists still crossed behind his back obediently as he lets John feed him his cock in slow, deep thrusts.

He spills into the Sub’s mouth with a hoarse shout and Jordan swallows it all down without so much as a splutter, pulling back to suckle at the head as John sags in his chair, panting for breath.

“You’re amazing,” the Dom tells him, head tipped back and eyes closed as he recovers from his climax, his fingers rubbing gently against Jordan’s scalp. “Sweet Jesus, that was good.”

Jordan hums around his cock, pleased, and when John manages to muster up the energy to glance down at him, the boy’s looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed and posture slumped in a manner that suggests he’s floating somewhere pleasant at the moment. John smiles, soft and full of affection, dragging the backs of his fingers down Jordan’s cheek, his hand lingering there when the boy leans into his touch, eyes slipping closed.

“Do you wanna come back up?” the Sheriff asks, his voice a low murmur as he strokes the Sub’s hair.

Jordan shakes his head; only the barest flicker of movement, but it’s there, and John knows he needs a little while longer on his knees to ride out his current high.

“Alright, baby. Here,” John nudges at his shoulder gently to guide him sideways. “Move over a little for me, that’s it.”

His cock slips free of Jordan’s lips and John shushes him gently when the deputy makes a noise of protest, urging him to shuffle a little further over so that he’s under the desk before sinking his fingers into the boy’s hair again.

“I’m gonna work for a little while,” he tells the blissed-out Sub, turning his chair back to face the desk again. “And after I’m done, I’m going to take you upstairs, tie you to the headboard and milk you dry. Understood?”

He feels Jordan nod quickly beneath his hand and grins, gently guiding the Sub’s head forward again, sucking in a sharp breath when the boy’s lips close around his still-sensitive cock.

“Keep that warm for me until I’m done here, there’s a good boy.”

Another low, blissed-out hum is his only answer, and John scratches idly at the Sub’s scalp as he reaches for his pen again, blinking hard to refocus his vision on the security audit in front of him.

Jordan manages to tease another orgasm out of him before the hour is up, but the Sheriff is a man of his word; by the end of the night his Sub’s exhausted and sated and looking wonderfully debauched, and John can enjoy the rest of the weekend without worrying about paperwork.

It’s a win-win.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I've made a list of all your requests from the past couple of chapters, I'll try and include those specific scenes/kinks later in the story. Feel free to request more in the comments below! :)
> 
> xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> This is another prompt fill for the numerous readers who requested John/Jordan interaction and a how-they-got-together story. I'm planning on exploring their life as a married couple with all its ups and downs in the next couple of chapters.
> 
> Let me know if you have any specific scene requests! :) 
> 
> xxx


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